


Mr. Laryngitis

by fouroux



Category: U2
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/pseuds/fouroux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A silly little birthday fic for spacemonkey, who requested I write about Bono suffering from laryngitis with a little sexiness on the side. This is what I came up with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Laryngitis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacemonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/gifts).



“Edge?”  
  
The connecting door to Edge's hotel room fell shut, a couple of naked footsteps followed, and then the sound of someone flopping onto his bed. Edge finished drying his face without hurry, neatly hung up his towel, then left the bathroom to find a sorry-looking Bono laying amongst his sheets and pillows, sulking at the TV he had switched on.  
  
“Edge, I'm sick,” he croaked; as was evident by the poor state of his voice, his glassy eyes and the swollen lymph nodes Edge could make out from where he was standing. “Is it bad?”  
  
Bono only huffed in response and cleared his throat for emphasis. It did sound like rusty barbed wire had replaced his vocal cords, yet Edge was well aware that this, too, could turn into a performance act for Bono. One that required all the more attention and patience from everyone in close proximity to the suffering singer. He probably enjoyed it, too.  
  
“What's all this?” Edge inquired, sitting down on his bed and picking up the little plastic bag Bono must have brought along and dropped on the mattress next to him. Rummaging through it, he found several bottles of medicine and blisters full of rows of pills. The usual remedies he carried along on every tour. And a toothbrush.  
  
“Ali said you're to take care of me.”  
  
“Did she now?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“She mentioned my name, specifically?”  
  
“Yes,” Bono's reddened and slightly swollen eyes looked up at him with such convincing seriousness, Edge might have believed him, if he were someone else. Talking to politicians and playing the arrogant rock star, as well as the devil in platform shoes had turned him into quite an impressive liar. “You're to give me my medicine, feed me and bathe me. And tuck me in, too. That is what she said.”  
  
“Anything else, your highness? Maybe a back rub?” Amused, Edge leaned over to pick up his beanie from his bedside table, and was surprised to hear the unexpectedly smooth purr coming out of what must be a flaming throat, followed by a squeeze on his thigh that slipped a little too far inward to be innocent. “Now _that's_ an idea, The Edge.”  
  
“Well,” Edge replied, adjusting his beanie on his head and straightening it down at the back, giving Bono an apologetic look he was only partly sincere about. “I'm actually meeting Larry for dinner in half an hour, so you'll have to tuck yourself in. In your own bed, preferably.”  
  
“What?” Indignant, Bono pushed himself up. “You smell this good for _Larry_?”  
  
“If you can still smell my aftershave, I think you can do without my nursing skills.”  
  
“It's my throat, Edge. These things _always_ hit my throat. Do you see this?” He raised his chin and tilted his head back a little, pressing his fingertips into the spots below the back of his unshaven jaw. “Lymph nodes the size of rocks, I can feel them.”  
  
Well, at least that much was true. Bono's throat and vocal cords were so sensitive, laryngitis hit him on a nearly bimonthly basis; several allergies and the occasional reminder of too many smokes in his thirties didn’t help his cause. And his lymph nodes did look considerably swollen.  
  
“How about you start with this,” Edge suggested and picked out the bottle of cough syrup from Bono's bag. “Then order some tea to your room and try not to use your voice for the rest of the evening. No more phone calls, no partying downtown.”  
  
“I can't stay here?”  
  
“I don't want to catch whatever you’ve got.”  
  
“Edge, please,” turning towards him like a big cat, Bono draped his arm around Edge's waist, anchoring him tightly to the bed. “I'll be good, I promise. Let me stay.” Edge sighed. “You know I'll come back in here anyway when you're out eating with dear Lawrence, and I'll make this bed my own. And then what would you do, The Edge?”  
  
“I'd rent a new room.”  
  
“Nonsense.” Shifting even closer and pushing his knee over Edge's thigh, effectively pinning him down even further, he cleared his throat once more and continued with an impish smile. “I'll tell you what will happen. Listen carefully, Edge. Are you listening? …Good. Now, I'm sure you'll be enjoying some wine during dinner, won't you? You like your food and drink just like me, don't deny it. No, indeed. So, you'll be a little intoxicated when you return around, what, midnight? You come home at sensible times, The Edge, unlike myself. Well, you'll open the door to your room and there's me, laying on this divine bed, claiming it all for myself, as I'm wont to do. Fast asleep, of course, and wearing one of your shirts. I do enjoy wearing your shirts, The Edge, did you know? You'll be able to tell by the mess I made of your suitcase. I tend to do that. Rummage through your stuff, I mean. Yeah, I know, don't look so surprised. It's just that, sometimes, I forget the odd toiletry or other, a book to read, a pair of socks. You always think of everything, Edge. Remarkable, truly. That brain of yours. Now, where was I? Right, you'll see me there, in the midst of the mess I made of your room, because I can't keep things tidy for the life of me and I might've done that on purpose, because you left me here. And you'll be a bit drunk, remember? Just a little. It makes your cheeks blush, Edge, it's really quite adorable. And you know what'll happen next? Oh, Edge, I can see it in your eyes. Yes, you do. You know exactly what you'll do. And let me tell you, Edge, I do love to wake up to your impatient hands on me. Your _extraordinary_ hands...”  
  
Stunned into silence by Bono's monologue, Edge stared at him and his feverish blue eyes, the rosy cheeks and thin mouth; heard his chuckle rumble low and deep over the gravel in his throat as he leaned in to kiss him, and for a second Edge considered giving in, as did his half-hard cock in his jeans, but he stopped him just in time by placing a couple of fingers over Bono's lips.  
  
“These extraordinary hands,” Edge repeated, amusement flickering in the green hues of his eyes as he saw the surprise and disappointment on Bono's face upon failing his mission, “will go downtown with me and eat some equally extraordinary bavette. While you,” he leaned in and gave the cage of his fingers that shielded Bono's mouth from his a kiss, “will stay home. Just like you said.”  
  
Bono grunted in frustration as Edge peeled himself out from under him. “I'll consider letting this play out like you suggested. Under one condition,” he pushed Bono's knee off his leg and squeezed the hard thigh above appreciatively.  
  
“And what's that?” Especially hoarse after his monologue, he held perfectly still as Edge leaned in close – not to kiss him, but to whisper in his ear. Low and calm, “You'll spare your voice and won't make a sound when I fuck you later.” Bono took a deep breath in and momentarily trembled on the exhale as Edge's tongue and lips played with his earring, then his lobe. A second later, he found himself falling back into the pillows after a playful shove, grunting slightly.  
  
“Don’t want to keep Larry waiting,” Edge mused, already up and about to pick up his jacket. Bono kept laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a hot face he wasn't sure was due to his fever or the prospect of waking up to Edge wanting to fuck him. Possibly both.  
  
“Enjoy your fuckin' bavette.”  
  
“Oh, I will. Thanks, Bono.” He could hardly suppress the boyish grin Edge hadn't lost since he was five and straightened his jacket's collar, then picked up his smartphone. “I'll send someone up to bring you some tea. Make sure you get rid of _that_ before you open the door,” he wasn't shy to stare pointedly at Bono's crotch, “don't want to frighten the poor girl.”  
  
“Maybe it's a handsome bellhop.” Bono shot back irritatedly and rolled over onto his stomach while Edge's soft laughter left the hotel room, closing the door with a click.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy belated Birthday, spacemonkey! <3
> 
> This might not be what you've had in mind when you thought of the prompt, but I lost track of how many times I've rewritten this entire scene since then... to combine a little sexiness with a sick Bono wasn't so easy after all! I hope you enjoyed it anyway, as well as the nod towards Lucky Number Seven :)
> 
>  
> 
> PS: The long monologue might seem odd to some, but it's a tribute to the genius that was likeamadonna way back on LJ. 
> 
> PPS: A huge Thank You to nu2mb (Tumblr) for being a great impromptu beta <3 All remaining mistakes are my own. No harm intended.


End file.
